


Big, Bad

by MissNaya



Category: DCU
Genre: Age Play, Bargaining, Breathplay, Costume Kink, Creampie, Dubious Consent, Fingerfucking, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Flexibility, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No Refractory Period, Rape Fantasy, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 14:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14718080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: In order to keep Deathstroke from killing his current target, Dick has to agree to do something a little unorthodox.





	Big, Bad

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write some quick smut, so here you gooooooo

“You're sick, you know that?”

Dick stands with his arms crossed as Slade looks him up and down. Even with his hand covering the lower half of his face, Dick can tell he's smiling. He can see the sparkle in his eye. That lingering gaze makes him shift, but not too much; if he moves around, he fears he might, uh... _spill_ out of his old, too-small Robin uniform.

Slade brings his fingers together, stroking his beard. “And yet you still agreed to do it.”

Yup. He's definitely smiling. Dick tries not to stare at the point of Slade's canines where they flash between his lips.

“Yeah, well,” he says, turning away to hide his blush. “Maybe I shouldn't have.”

“Oh, you _definitely_ shouldn't have,” Slade says. Dick doesn't even hear him move, but he feels Slade's breath at his ear, can practically feel the rumble of his voice shoot down like lightning between his legs. Self-conscious, he tries to tug the hem of his shorts – no, _panties_ at this point – down, but Slade catches his wrists and stops him. He feels the scratch of Slade's beard on the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Poor little Robin, all lost and alone... Who knows what might happen to him?”

Dick tries and fails to suppress a shudder. He tilts his head back against Slade's broad shoulder, feels him kiss down his neck. His voice is breathless when he speaks.

“We shouldn't be doing this.”

“ _You_ shouldn't be,” Slade corrects. “I'm already a soulless monster, as far as everyone's concerned. May as well have a little fun.”

Slade's fingertips, rough and calloused, dip under the hem of Dick's panties, teasing the sensitive skin connecting thighs with pelvis. He feels his cock start to swell against his better judgment.

Dick is a man of his word. That's the only reason he's here right now, wearing what he is. When he bargained for Marv Lipman's life – an arms dealer wanted in all 50 states, and a very attractive target for the sort of person who likes to hire mercenaries – this had been the price. One night with Slade Wilson, doing whatever he wanted, if he'd let Dick drop Marv off with the authorities.

_It's someone's life,_ he reminds himself as Slade teases up and down that patch of skin. _It's worth it. Don't be selfish._

“...Slade,” he gasps when one of Slade's fingers brushes lightly against his balls. “Slade, I–”

“Shh.” Slade moves one large hand up to cover Dick's mouth. “No names tonight, Robin.”

God, it's creepy. It should disgust Dick, how unashamed Slade is about wanting to fuck him when he was still underage. He knows what he did to Terra, knows he still has a thing for people decades younger than he is, so by all rights, he should shut this down. Shouldn't feed into something so dangerously taboo _._

But then Slade mouths at his ear and rubs his crotch through his shorts, and Dick almost melts.

“You scared, little bird?” Slade breathes against his skin. He slides his hand away to let Dick answer.

“No,” he says.

“Oh, but you should be.” Slade brings both of his hands to Dick's chest and begins slowly, methodically unbuttoning each of the clasps on his vest. “Batman's not coming to save you, and neither are your little friends. I'm going to have you all. To. _Myself._ ”

He punctuates each word with a nip at Dick's jawline, until the skin there throbs with pain. Once his vest is completely undone, Slade tugs the hem of his t-shirt free and slides a warm hand flat up his belly. It tickles; Dick jumps.

“You're sick,” Dick repeats, feeling a little dazed. He swallows and licks his lips. It feels like he's betraying himself when he says, “Batman will–”

He can _feel_ Slade grin wickedly against his cheek, happy that he's playing along.

“Batman won't,” he says. “At least, not until well after I'm finished with you.”

Dick's not helpless. He knows that. At any time, he can put a stop to this, even without Batman. But the thought of himself years younger and lacking in experience, locked in some remote location with Deathstroke the Terminator overseeing his captivity, violating his boundaries, it's... God, it's intoxicating.

Abruptly, Slade pulls back, smacks Dick's ass, and throws him onto the waiting bed less than a foot away. It's large and soft and breaks Dick's fall without incident, but he bounces on it in shock for a few seconds, reaction time dulled. By the time he steadies himself, he hears the telltale _click_ of a gun's safety going off behind his head.

“Stay there.”

Slade steps forward until the barrel of the gun can press against the back of Dick's head. Slowly, he lowers it, tracing the curve of Dick's spine.

“Is that thing loaded?” Dick asks, but Slade shuts him up by shoving harshly with the gun until Dick falls forward onto his elbows.

“While I can assure you I'm no less lethal with an unloaded gun, ammunition does help,” Slade says. “On your hands and knees. Face against the bed. Hips up.”

Dick doesn't move. “You're seriously pointing a loaded gun at me right now? It's kind of a mood-killer to have to worry about–”

A sharp pain strikes Dick across the shoulder. He cries out, losing his balance with that arm and falling cheek-first into the mattress. Did Slade just hit him with the gun–?

“I don't give a damn about your mood,” Slade sneers. “Hips up. _Now,_ birdy.”

Dick exhales against the sheets, at a loss for words for once. Jesus. Slade's not joking around, is he? There's something dangerous about him, something written into his very presence that doesn't want Dick to forget just how powerful he is. That he's the one in control right now.

And even still, Dick's cock is straining hard in his shorts.

Hesitantly, he shifts around on the bed until he's in the position Slade requested. How did he ever manage to wear this outfit without worry? Like this, with his too-small shorts riding up and exposing half his ass, he feels more exposed than he's ever been. He doesn't even need to glance back at Slade to know he's staring; he can feel his eyes locked right where Dick doesn't want him to look.

Slade clicks his tongue and grabs Dick's ass with his free hand, tugging at him with a thumb. It's enough to ghost a sudden breeze over Dick's asshole, and he shudders, face as red as his vest.

“Stop–”

“What to do with you, what to do,” Slade hums, as if he hasn't already made up his mind. “I could get a pretty penny if I sold you like this. Nice and young and tight... I'd have buyers lined up for miles to get a chance at you, pretty bird. Tell me, you haven't had anyone inside here yet, have you?”

Slade strokes the sensitive skin around his hole with that invasive thumb of his. Dick doesn't have to wonder whether he's asking for real or as part of their “game;” the answer doesn't change either way.

“No.” He licks his lips, burying his face deeper into the sheets. “N-never.”

A long, low whistle tells the tale of Slade's interest. “Never? Not even a finger or two during playtime?”

Dick didn't think it was possible for him to flush any deeper, but he feels like he manages. “No.”

“...Jesus.”

Dick is barely able to catch the hitch in Slade's breath before he's flipped over onto his back. A quick glance tells him the gun has been tucked away, but he doesn't have time to breathe before Slade pushes one leg up high against his chest.

“Lemme see how flexible you can get,” he says. “Hold this up for me.”

“Ah, Sla– _Terminator,_ ” Dick hisses through his teeth, reaching down to tug his shirt low over his crotch. The awkward angle stretches his shorts and leaves his balls and half his bent, aching cock in plain view. “Stop! You– You can't just–”

“I can,” Slade says, “and I will. Now, you can be a good boy and hold your leg up for me, or I can call up a few people who'll _pay me_ for the chance to do it themselves. What'll it be?”

There's no way Slade is serious. Even he wouldn't tarnish Dick's reputation for the sake of something like this, he's sure. But the threat makes Dick's heart beat faster in his chest, and it's one that he's sure he'd take seriously had something like this ever actually happened. That's why he plays along, he tells himself. That's why he brings up a shaky hand to hold himself steady, arched with his leg over his head in a position that comes to him as naturally as any other acrobatic pose.

“That's what I thought,” Slade says, giving his thigh an “affectionate” slap. “Now, don't move. Not an inch, you understand?”

He starts to move even before he finishes his sentence, placing one knee on the foot of the bed. Dick's eyes go wide when Slade's head ducks down, fingers coming to tug his panties out of the way, but he doesn't have time to do much more than make a strangled nose before Slade laves his tongue over his hole.

Slade laps at him the way a thirsty man in the desert would treat a puddle. There's an urgency there, a desperation that tells Dick he's been waiting to do this for far longer than just one night. All he can do is gasp increasingly staccato breaths as Slade flicks his tongue over his asshole and sucks at the puckered skin there. He's stretched so tightly in his contorted position that he doubts anything can make its way inside his body, but Slade proves him wrong when his firm, wet tongue presses slowly inside.

“O-oh my god,” Dick breathes, eyelids fluttering, head lolling back. “Oh my god. _Slade–_ ”

_Slap._ Stinging pain like pins and needles blooms over the crest of Dick's ass. Slade's hand lingers there after he strikes him, squeezing his asscheek with a thumb extended to keep him spread open wide.

“ _Deathstroke!_ ” Dick grits his teeth, cock throbbing so hard he fears he might come then and there. “That what you wanna hear, you– you pervert?”

Slade hums in affirmation. The vibrations tickle Dick from his ass to his balls to his cock, and he whimpers helplessly.

Slade's tongue wriggles around inside of him, wet and a little clammy despite how warm he otherwise feels. Drool drips down the curve of his ass and cools his skin, and somehow, despite the overwhelming tightness, Slade is able to thrust his tongue in and out, accompanied by little movements of his head, beard scraping Dick's sensitive skin on each downswing.

“ _Ohh,_ no,” Dick groans, tossing his head slowly back and forth. His outstretched leg quivers. “No no no, I can't _take_ it, Sl– Deathstroke, _please..._ ”

Slade pulls back and plants a kiss right on his pulsating hole. “You're gonna have to, boy, because we're nowhere near done yet.”

“Wha...” Dick blinks through blearly, lust-blind eyes as Slade sits up. He feels a pair of thick fingers slide up the crack of his ass and collect spit along the way, before one of them circles around his asshole. “...No! P-please, Terminator, please, you don't have to do this–”

“I'm going to,” Slade says. “Does that scare you, Robin? Are you afraid of how it'll feel?”

The certainty with which Slade speaks turns Dick's spine into jelly. He's practically panting by now, but tries to blame it on holding such a weird position for so long. God, this can't really be turning him on. It _can't_ be.

“'M...” He gulps, steeling his resolve. “I'm not afraid of you, _Slade._ ”

They look into each other's eyes while Slade shoves his finger as deep as it'll go into Dick's ass.

Dick yelps, immediately lifting his hips to try and get away from the intrusion. Slade keeps on him, pumping his finger in and out, never giving Dick an inch of room to breathe. His arm alone is powerful enough to rock Dick's hips back with every thrust, each one pulling from Dick a low, throaty sound that he'd never heard himself make before.

And then. _Then._ Then Slade brushes up against something inside of him, and pointedly, firmly starts to work his finger back and forth over it. Dick's eyelashes flutter, and he loses all semblance of his train of thought, his conscious mind replaced by some beast inside of him that heels for Slade like a dog sits for its master. The sound he makes is bestial, too, a guttural moan that he couldn't hold back if he tried. It's almost _frightening,_ how completely and totally his body gives in to Slade.

“That's it,” Slade says, low, thick. “Keep relaxed, just like that.”

Dick doesn't know how to do anything else. Slade's finger expertly opens him up, and all Dick can do is stay along for the ride. His fingers shake and waver until his thigh slips from his grasp, calf landing on Slade's shoulder. As if waiting for that cue, Slade slips a second finger inside of him.

This time, it hurts. Pinpricks of pain assault Dick as he's spread farther than he was prepared for, but then both fingers resume their assault on that spot inside of him, and he melts again. He wants to speak, to demand Slade stop for a minute to let him gather his bearings, but all that comes out of his mouth are little growling moans that operate independently of his brain.

Vaguely, he registers Slade reaching into one of the pouches on his uniform to pull out a small tube. Seconds later, cool, thick fluid coats Slade's fingers, which don't stop for even a second. That makes the slide much less painful, and with it, Dick's pleasure builds up even more.

Barely a whisper, yet somehow loud enough to reach Dick's ears through the sound of his own moaning, Slade asks, “Scared yet, little Robin?”

Dick stares up at him through half-lidded eyes and a plain domino mask. Through waves of pleasure, he studies Slade's expression. Watches that single eye flick up and down over his body, pupil dilated so far that it looks almost entirely black. Sees the beads of sweat drip down Slade's forehead. Watches those lips part for him, a sliver of pink tongue clenched between dangerous teeth.

“...I'll never be scared,” he says at last. “Not of you.”

“I was hoping you'd say that,” Slade says, and with one strong hand, he rips Dick's panties clean off.

He only has half a second to feel annoyed before Slade's mouth comes down on his own, all teeth and tongue and scratchy stubble. Slade shifts, yanking his fingers out, and in the resulting emptiness Dick almost regrets this. It's wrong to spread your legs for someone who's been murdering people since before you were born, isn't it? It's unbecoming of a superhero to kiss back when a villain shoves their tongue in your mouth.

But Dick kisses back, and he wraps his legs up high on Slade's waist the second he feels him start to line up his cock. It's slick and cool, just like his fingers were, and Slade slides the length of it up and down Dick's crack a few times, then slaps it against his hole. It's so intimate, so fucking _obscene,_ that Dick can do nothing but pull Slade's face closer and deepen the kiss.

When the tip starts to press in, it's much bigger than Slade's fingers. It's wide and blunt and stabs into Dick's insides like a knife. For a second, he wants to pull back and beg Slade to go back to his fingers, because there's no way this can feel good, right? But, then, he thought fingers couldn't feel that good, and he never imagined he'd be so turned on to be in bed with Slade Wilson in the first place, and now look at him.

He's still not scared.

So he lets Slade keep pushing in, and tries his best to remember how to relax. Slade grunts into the kiss, one hand resting on Dick's hip, tugging him in shallow strokes up and down on his cock, up and down. Dick whimpers despite himself the deeper he goes, one hand set against Slade's bicep to offset his other arm slung around his shoulders. He notices after a minute that they've never broken their kiss, sweaty foreheads practically stuck together.

Then, all at once, Slade rocks his hips and sheathes himself entirely, and Dick throws his head back and screams.

“Shh, Robin,” Slade says, covering Dick's mouth again. This time, it's accompanied by a heavy kiss to the forehead. “Shh.”

When he starts to move in earnest, Dick's eyes go wide, and he scrapes his nails down Slade's shoulder and starts slamming a fist against his rock-hard upper arm. It doesn't do much damage with his gloves still on, and even still, Dick's barely fighting back as hard as he could. He should be phenomenally pissed at this jackass for being so rough, but something about the wide hand over his mouth and the _slap-slap-slap_ of Slade's balls against his ass have him holding back.

It isn't long before his weak protests dissolve, and his clenched fist unfurls into a shuddering hand that he uses to hold onto Slade's arm for dear life. While not nearly as precise as his fingers, the edge of Slade's cockhead drags against his prostate with every thrust. It's a whole different kind of pleasure-pain, and Dick starts to wonder if this is what it's like with women, this gut-deep mishmash of warring sensations. Slade's coarse pubic hair chafes Dick's perineum and balls whenever their hips connect, adding a whole new level of stinging and tingling, and Dick doesn't know whether this makes him want to shave in the future or not, if it feels better or worse against a woman's clit.

He'll certainly be minding his pace a lot more from now on, that's for sure.

Slade seems to have no such hang-ups, assaulting Dick's ass with reckless abandon. His hand is pressed so tightly over the lower half of Dick's face that he gets lightheaded, and with that drowsiness comes more pleasure. He's not sure if it's because pain dulls the closer he gets to unconsciousness, or if he's just a freak who likes being suffocated in addition to being ravished by assassins, but either way, he doesn't think he'll last long.

As he gets closer to his orgasm, his inner walls throb and contract, clamping down hard around the intrusion that is Slade's cock. It only serves to get Slade to move faster, until the sharp slapping of their bodies together is all he can hear; Dick feels Slade's growl instead of hearing it.

It's that small reaction, that almost-noise, that pushes Dick over the edge. The thought that _he_ did that, _he_ pulled that sound from Slade Wilson, the fearsome Deathstroke, that _he's_ the one he wanted so bad he was willing to break a contract to have him. It's heady and powerful, and the feeling rushes straight to Dick's crotch, his balls tightening up while he bears down on Slade's cock.

His hips move of their own accord, rocking up and down over Slade's length as he comes. His insides wring Slade out, and it's full, it's deep, that feeling of his prostate rubbing itself against Slade's cock more than the other way around. He feels Slade gasp, hears him curse, then he holds Dick's hips and slams into him so hard that the aftershocks of Dick's orgasm make his eyes roll back into his head, whiting out with pleasure.

Through it all, he feels Slade's cock twitch inside him. It pulsates once, twice, three times before Slade moves again, fucking him with a wetter sound now. And, _Christ,_ he doesn't stop to compose himself, just loops an arm around Dick's lower back and lifts him up to get a better angle. His other hand slides off Dick's mouth, allowing him to suck in big, cool breaths while Slade uses his body.

The second time around is quicker, and Slade grunts loud and harsh, pulling Dick's hips tight against his own for his next orgasm. Dick watches, eyes half-lidded, mouth agape, as a shudder overtakes Slade from his hips to his shoulders. Again, his cock pulses, and again, Dick feels full and wet.

They stay like that for a while, though Dick doesn't keep track of how long. Long enough for Slade to finally get soft and pull out of him with a funny feeling. Long enough for Dick to become aware of just how hot and scratchy the remains of his Robin uniform feel after sex.

Surprisingly, Slade lies down beside him and nestles up against his back. Less surprisingly, he slides a hand up Dick's thigh and rubs his fingers over the mess of cum and lube dripping out of his asshole.

Dick hisses through his teeth. “Stop... Too sensitive...”

He reaches down to place one of his hands over Slade's own. Their size difference is very apparent like that; of course, Slade doesn't stop.

“I get you for the whole night, birdy,” Slade mutters against his neck. Dick can feel that smile is back again. “I gave up a big paycheck for you. I intend to get my money's worth.”

“I'm not gonna be able to walk for a while, am I?” Dick sighs, trailing his fingertips over the hair ghosting across Slade's knuckles.

Slade kisses his pulse point. “Not getting scared now, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Good.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr!](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
